Are You Mine

Chapter 19


Saige


Since coming back from Chicago, I spend more time than usual with Fox. It seems like he’s not working as much as he had been. His nighttime shifts at the restaurant are constant; it’s the ones at the warehouse that have diminished. He hasn’t said anything, and I haven’t asked mainly because I’m too grateful to have him around to jinx it.

What he said two weeks ago at the park was almost completely accurate, but I’m not excited about showing weakness to anyone, so of course I denied it all. I’m sure I’m supposed to let him know all the time how much he means to me, but there’s something within holding me back. It’s like if he knows how much I love getting phone calls from him, he’ll use it against me. If I tell him that my whole day revolves around thinking about him now, he’ll understand the power he has and use it in evil ways.

I know that’s ridiculous. I know it’s stupid.

But still.

Tonight, we’re presenting “Myka’s Metal Valentine” to Myka and Val. I was able to get it to a printer. The binding, the color, the quality of the print are out of this world. It came out perfect, if you ask me. Fox and I haven’t told them we’re finished, so they’re out in the living room smoking a little pot while Fox and I finish dinner.

Yeah, we’re making dinner for our friends. Apparently we’ve moved into some kind of adult domestic relationship. It’s scary as hell because I can imagine us in our late twenties doing this very thing, hosting gatherings and preparing finger foods and elaborate entrees. It’s weird.

This whole night was Fox’s idea. If it were up to me, we’d stay in alone all the time, but he’s a social being, so he needs more interaction than I do. Besides, it’s just the same friends I’ve had for years. Not really a stretch for me.

As we take plates of food out to the living room, Fox glances behind him at me. He’s loving this stuff, and as he pauses just for a moment, he winks at me. That simple gesture causes a flurry of activity inside my body and mind. There’s the flutter in my belly, the sharp voice in my mind telling me this is wrong, my heart starts thumping out of control, my limbs feel weak. There are soft words that contrast with the other voice floating through my mind; the voice belongs to the frightened little girl within worrying about how long this can last—when he, too, is going to leave.

Val and Myka are finished smoking the joint Myka brought by the time we put the food on the coffee table, which is good because just the residual smell makes me rethink this whole sober living thing. Well, not really. It’s been an easy transition to make, and while I think my anxiety level would be lowered, I still like the pride I feel and the pride Fox has because I abstain.

Of course, Myka and Val, chow down, while Fox and I eat slowly. Again, there’s something special knowing that both of us are sober. It’s like we have our own little club and, at least for tonight, it’s exclusive.

Once the food is gone, Fox gets up to change the music, and I get up to grab the copies of our graphic novel. I had four made, one for each of us. The original is safe both digitally and in hard copy in a box in my closet.

“You both wanted a steampunk novel about the rebellion of a few good soldiers and civilians against the evil regime of Victorian dictators, so Fox and I present to you, Myka’s Metal Valentine.”

“Oh, my God. No way!” Myka immediately sits up straighter. She’s still high, but her narrowed focus is on the books in my hands.

I give one to her and one to Val, then sit back down to watch their reactions. Fox sits on the arm of my chair, absently twirling a strand of my hair between his fingers.

“You drew all this?” Val asks Fox. I crane my neck to see Fox’s reaction, but all he does is nod with that charming grin on his face. “Oh, man, I mean, Saige said you had talent, but damn.” Val flips through a few more pages. “You guys could sell this. I mean, really sell it.”

I scoff at the thought. “You haven’t read it yet. Once you get past the magnificence of Fox’s ink, you’ll understand kickass art can’t make up for a poor story.”

“I call bullshit,” Myka says. “Say what you want, but I know you’re a good storyteller. I’ve read your works-in-progress, and they’re great, so I know this will be. Plus,” she says as she turns to look at Valentine, “we’re the stars, so how could it not rock?”

***

Valentine and Myka ooh and aah over the graphic novel for another two hours before heading off into the night to do whatever steampunk chicks and new aged goth guys do together. After cleaning up the living room, Fox and I sit down on the couch. We haven’t spoken in a half hour. I’m not sure what he’s thinking about, but I’m trying not to think about anything. I just sit and enjoy the sensation of his arm around my shoulders, the feel of his chest against half of my back, the slight tingle the tips of his fingers make against the follicles of my hair as he threads his fingers through it.

“I think that was a success,” he finally says. “They seemed to enjoy it.”

“They’re probably just shocked I finally finished something.”

“The book is awesome,” he says with confidence, shaking my body with his for emphasis. “You can say what you want about the writing, but I know it’s good.”

I love the compliment and try to keep the negative voice in my head quiet, but Fox hasn’t read the book. I’ve read each part to him, but I haven’t read the whole book in order to him.

It must be such a bummer not to be able to read well. It doesn’t seem like it’s fair for something so major to be such a chore. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t just pick up a book and read with ease; or pick up a pen and paper and write out whatever is on my mind.

I know Fox has his art, and through it he can express himself, but written language is the dominant form of communication after verbal.

He kisses the top of my head and breaks my line of thought. I twist around and rise onto my knees. “Will you stay the night?” I can feel the heat flood my cheeks. It’s not like it’d be the first time he’s slept over, and it’s not the first time we’ve had sex, but there’s something strange about asking for it. Something vulnerable that makes me feel a little ashamed.

I’m not ashamed of our relationship. I’m not ashamed of having sex. I think I’m ashamed of wanting him. Of needing him.

Somehow I just know waking up with him tomorrow morning will make the whole day better. He lightens my mood and my outlook without doing anything other than being present. Fox is like an infusion of energy into my fatigued life. He’s a swift kick in the ass to my unmotivated self, and a hit of the most powerful drug of positivity when I’m at my most negative.

As much as I don’t particularly care for giving up control, I seem helpless to do anything else but hand it to him. Whether he stays and fills my heart or if he leaves, I am only able to experience the ride of emotions that goes with it.

***

“That young man of yours is very polite, isn’t he?”

I look up at my grandmother’s words. She showed up only an hour after Fox left for work, bearing breakfast. “He is,” I say in agreement, then fold my hands together in my lap. I’m already on the defensive, even though she hasn’t said or done anything to put me on edge.

“So outgoing and lively.”

“Yes,” I agree again, but I know her words are directed toward me. Fox is what I am not. “He’s perfect, really.”

Gramma sets her coffee cup down on the table and pushes her lips up into a smile. “I’ve never seen you so taken with a young man.”

This would not sound like a negative remark coming from anyone else, but from my grandmother, the words sting me, as if she’s saying that I’ve never been normal enough to have a boyfriend before. I won’t give her the satisfaction by reacting like a child about it, but I can’t help myself from asking, “I guess my mom probably had a lot of boyfriends, huh? Probably a lot of perfect young men who treated her like a princess, right?”

At the mention of my mother, Gramma looks out the window next to the kitchen table. I hate the pain I see in her profile. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know why I did except for that it’s always been so hard to get information out of her. Maybe subconsciously, I thought this was too good of an opportunity to give up hoping to glean a little more knowledge about my mother. I guess I don’t care if I’m compared to her right now, so long as I can understand the woman I came from better.

“Yes, your mother dated many boys in high school. Most of them wanted her to date them exclusively, however, your mother was diplomatic in her denial of them. She said she was too young to get too involved with one person, but I believe your mother thrived on experience and none of those boys were strong enough to dampen her adventurous spirit.”

“Until my dad?”

A smile overtakes her face, and the sight of it causes my breath to catch for a moment. “Your father had an adventurous spirit as well, but it was different from your mother’s. As you know, they met in college, and that’s a time when people try on many different personas to figure out which one they really are.” Gramma stops, sips her coffee, and finally looks at me again. “I expect your father emerged from the womb exactly as the same person he was on the day he died.”

It’s me who looks away now. Intellectually, I know my dad’s dead—killed in action—but I hate when it’s mentioned, especially in such a casual way by my grandmother.

“He was a man of extraordinary drive. He knew exactly what he wanted out of life, whereas your mother toyed around with various versions of herself until she found one that fit. But even though he was much more settled than she, your mother found him captivating. While on one hand, he never waivered in his resolve to finish his degree and continue onto a military career, he was artistic. She once said he could sit and stare at a flower for hours just to figure out how to draw it perfectly.”

I think of Fox and the way he views the world, but I don’t know if he even has to look at a flower for more than a second to draw it. It seems like the talent flows, as if born within him, and no study is necessary for Fox to get it right.

My grandmother doesn’t continue, but I want to hear more. I might not be the most daring or bold person on the planet, but already Fox and I have had great adventures together. Maybe I’m more like my mother than both Gramma and I think. “You said they both were adventurous. What types of exciting stuff did they do together?”

There is no longer a smile on her face as she wraps both hands around the coffee cup and stares out at the window. “She kept a diary of their short journey through life together. I’ve never opened it.”

I widen my eyes and slacken my jaw. “What?” It feels like I’ve ran a marathon, and all of the sudden my senses sharpen. I can’t control the waves of emotion rolling within me. “What?” I ask again. “She kept a journal? Why didn’t you ever tell me that? Why didn’t you ever share it with me?”

My grandmother’s eyes have cooled, and I already know she’s sealed herself off from feeling any of my anger. “Saige, don’t yell. It’s unbecoming of a lady.”

As uncomfortable as it makes me to confront her, the rage within drives me onward. “I’ll yell if I want to!” I point to the doorway out of the kitchen. “Go home and get it! Go get her journal and give it to me.”

“It’s packed away.”

“I don’t care. Go get it. I should have it. I’m her daughter; it belongs to me!”

Something settles over my grandmother to make her eyes water. Whatever it is, it blankets me as well because all the fire within me snuffs out. I drop my hand to the table. The impact sloshes my coffee around in its cup. “Please?”

“Saige, I didn’t give it to you because I thought you too young to handle the thoughts and actions of a college co-ed. I don’t know what’s within the pages, but I—”

“I’m old enough now. There’s nothing I’ll read that will shock me, Gramma. You had my mom for years. You got to experience every little bit of her life, and all I got was five years I can barely remember. You know what she sounded like when she cried, when she laughed, when she sighed, and when she yelled. You’ve seen all of her smiles and witnessed her emotions. You have memories of her, and I have none. All I have are pictures. Little moments in time trapped with fading ink on shiny paper. I want to know who my mom was!”

I can tell I’ve rattled my grandmother by the way she rubs her hands together. I don’t want to let the momentum I’ve built go, but I don’t know what else to say. The fact that I have to convince her to give me my mother’s written thoughts is absurd, and I hate my grandmother for it.

“I was going to give it to you,” she says in a feeble voice. I’ve never heard her sound so weak before. “I just thought you were too young, so I put it away and haven’t thought about it in years.”

“I’m not too young now,” I remind her, this time softly. She probably never read it because she fears what my mother actually thought of her. I bet my mother hated her at times too. How painful would it be to read the angry words of your dead daughter? “Gramma, please?”

With her hands flat on the table, Gramma pushes herself up, then runs her hands down her blouse, dusts off the thighs of her pants, and lifts her head. “I apologize if I’ve hurt you by keeping it for too long. I will look for it and give it to you when I find it.”

“Thank you.”

Without anything else, she walks out of the kitchen. I follow to lock the door after her, but when she pauses in the doorway of my apartment, she twists her body around, one hand steadying herself on the frame of the door. “As you grow older, I think I see a bit of your parents coming out. Your mother would have fought tooth and nail for something she believed in, and your father, well, you know how he was. Willing to die for what he felt was right.”

Oh, my God. Did she just compare me to my mother in a positive light? Before I have a chance to free my thoughts and respond, my grandmother is gone. There is nothing more to do but lock the door and think about what just happened.

***

I don’t know why I don’t feel self-conscious after having sex with Fox, but I don’t. We’re lying in my bed with my head pillowed on his bicep. None of the afternoon’s emotions have seeped into our time together. I forget about my grandmother’s hoarding of my mother’s items because when I’m wrapped within Fox’s arms, curled into his body, there’s not much else in the world.

There’s no worry in my mind about if he liked the sex, because I know he did. I don’t wonder if everything is okay because it’s impossible for it to be otherwise. The silence is like its own climax; a time when we can both remember the act we just committed together and let our fluttering bodies relax and match the calm of our minds.

However, the silence doesn’t last long. Fox doesn’t like too much quiet, so it’s no surprise the peaceful moment of listening to the air conditioner force cool air into my apartment is broken by his voice.

“What are the two sexiest animals in the barnyard?”

Just the question cracks me up, so I can’t wait to hear the answer. I roll over and push a little bit of hair off his forehead. “I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Brown chicken, brown cow!” he answers in a singsong voice, making the punch line clear. It comes out sounding like Bow-chica-bow-wow, the familiar and funny tune used to reference scenes of erotica or porn.

I playfully smack his shoulder, and he tightens his hold on me until our naked bodies are pressed together. “Do you know how lucky I feel to have met you?” he asks.

“I don’t know, you said I was a bitch at the graduation party.”

Fox shakes his head while pulling his upper body away from me to look straight into my eyes. “Nope. You’re remembering it wrong. I said other people said you were a bitch—and I don’t think I used that word, did I?—but that I didn’t believe them. And I was right. You’re not. You’re awesome, just a little rough around the edges when it comes to interacting with other people.”

Even though his words could have made me angry, they don’t. Nothing he’s said is anything but the truth, and to be honest, I like that Fox doesn’t hold back. I like that he’s not willing to put me on some pedestal and ignore my obvious flaws.

My thoughts turn to adventure. I’m probably just trying to sort out my grandmother’s thoughts on my parent’s drive for it. I’m not like them. The nearest I’ve gotten to adventure is dreaming of California, but to be honest, there’s a little piece of me that knows I’ll never go. Well, maybe I’ll visit to pretend like I’m setting things up, but I won’t move there.

I don’t know what it is that keeps my feet in Pechimu, but I feel locked here. It’s comforting. Fox is going to England, and I can picture him not coming back. He’s free and fun. Nothing holds him anywhere.

“Are you getting excited for your trip?” I pillow my head on his shoulder to avoid his eyes. In a couple of weeks, he’s starting a new journey, and I’m just continuing my old life of uncomfortable contentment. It feels like my stomach is all knotted up.

“I’d be more excited if you were coming with me. I think you’d like England, Saigey.”

“How do you know? You’ve never been there.”

He tightens his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. I’m sure he interpreted my clipped tone correctly. I don’t want to hear him console me, or sugarcoat anything, so I speak again before he has a chance. “Maybe it’ll suck.”

Fox’s chuckle is less of a laugh and more of an exhalation of breath. “Way to be positive, baby.”

I drag my hands over my face like I’m scrubbing away the imaginary dirt I feel from shitting on his dream. While he tries to keep me close with his hands on my waist, I slip out of them and the bed easily to find my clothes. “I’m sorry,” I say when I’m fully dressed and near the door.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m just going to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Fox takes a deep breath. “Saige.”

I turn and lock my eyes with his. “What?”

“Don’t freak out. It’s a short trip, and I’ll be back.”

With a clenched jaw, I turn back to the doorway and don’t say anything to him. My heart pounds because it’s not fair to feel like this. I didn’t ask to be so wrapped up in someone I can’t think straight. I don’t want to be. He’s leaving, and there’s nothing I can do about it. How did this happen?

After I’m finished in the bathroom, I decide the best strategy is to avoid more conflict, so I go back into the room and climb up onto the bed with Fox. I haven’t forgotten his imminent departure, but I don’t want to talk about it, so I snuggle in deep, molding my body to his.

When Fox asks, “Are you okay?”

I nod in response and make a satisfied noise when he kisses my ear, but the knot in my stomach seems to grow bigger and tighter at the same time.

***

My stomach is still in a knot the next day when Fox decides we need to go back to the park and eat our lunch in the clover patches. It’s sweet, but I can’t feel it. My mind is fixed on the exploits of my parents. Gramma hasn’t given me the journal yet, but I don’t need it to know my parents’ shared trip through life brought them so close they decided to spend their lives contractually obligated to each other. They decided to bring a kid into the world.

What did their adventures together or individually get them? Nothing. Zilch. They both died. The loss of my mother probably killed my dad. If she’d been alive, he wouldn’t have kept signing on for more combat duty, and if he had, he might not have taken the same risks he did.

So what’s the damn point of any of this?

I try to keep this all to myself, but I always have a hard time limiting my emotions from translating to outward actions or expressions. In my attempt to change my thoughts, I watch Fox’s left hand as he sketches me. It wasn’t my idea to have him draw, but I felt too sick when he pitched it to protest. He’s not doing it in the Japanese style he loves so much. He’s doing this as a regular portrait, and it’s astounding. Even though I’m viewing it upside down, it looks like me. He has so much talent.

As he uses his left hand to drag the pencil across the paper, he props himself up with his right arm, his hand pressing down into a bunch of clovers. The green leaves nearly cover Fox’s entire hand. I have an urge to capture the image; I want to keep it forever, so I use my phone and snap a quick picture.

“What was that for?” he asks. “I wasn’t even smiling.”

“It was of your hand.”

“Oh.” He stops sketching and holds both of them up. “Want another one?”

I don’t think I have any pictures of him beyond what’s in the stupid yearbook. He’s holding up his hands on each side of his face. I snap a picture, then toss my phone into another clover patch and look away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You won’t look at me much today.”

“Quit it.”

“Quit what?”

When I turn back, he’s resting his hands on top of the sketchbook. “Quit trying to figure it all out.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“I’m not not looking at you today.”

Fox is quiet for a minute. “Okay.” I’m happy it seems like he’s going to let it go for about half a second, then he says, “But something is wrong. I’m not stupid. You’re distant.”

“I’m right here.”

He shakes his head as his lips shift into a sad line. “I know where you are physically. I just don’t know where you are mentally.”

“Mentally?” I say. I know what he means, but I can’t help myself from getting pissed at it. “Mentally I’m fine, thank you.” I bite back the nasty words that automatically spring into my mind. They’re about his mother and are beyond horrible. I might not be able to control whatever the hell is happening in this moment, but at least I’m able to keep those words inside my head instead of using them as weapons against a defenseless guy.

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You suggested I was mentally lost since you didn’t know where I was, right?”

Fox shakes his head and squints his eyes as a cloud finishes its pass over the sun and the sky brightens again. “That’s not what I said.”

“Well, maybe you should pay attention to the words you use and the way you say them.”

After a moment of silence, he says, “I’m sorry if I misuse words, Saige. I’m not as smart as you.”

“Whatever.”

“Why are you picking a fight with me? What happened between this morning and now? I thought we—”

“Let’s just go.” I grab my phone and keys and stand up, but I can’t go anywhere because he’s still looking up at me from the clover patch. “Please?”

Even as he gets up and collects his paper, pencils, and food containers, he has this look on his face like he’s just read a philosophy book he didn’t understand. Again, horrible words appear in my brain. I could end all of this now by calling him stupid. He’d never read a philosophy book because he wouldn’t get past the title page. I could use his learning disability to shatter him, which would shatter our fragile bond. We could be done with this whole thing.

If I said something cruel about his mother or about his dyslexia, he’d walk away from me. It would be so easy to go back to what I know, what I’m comfortable with. I wouldn’t have to feel like this again; like I’m waiting for him to figure it out and leave. If I push him away and he leaves now, I’m in control. If I wait until whenever he gets around to seeing what kind of person I am underneath the loving veneer he’s slapped me with, I’m at his mercy.

But could I say those things to Fox?

“I don’t get you,” he says in a quiet voice as he walks past me to my car.

When he’s out of earshot, I mumble to myself. “I don’t get me either.”